


Daddy Won't You Please Come Home

by Estivate



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: 30s AU, Author is not Rich, Bottom Loki (Marvel), Class Differences, Daddy Kink, Leyendecker Aesthetic, Light Angst, M/M, Money Fantasies, New Year's Eve, New York City, Pfft do you know me for anything else, Porn w Feelings, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Top Thor (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-15 04:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estivate/pseuds/Estivate
Summary: Dec 31st, 1935 	7:15 pm - New York CityThe monarchies of Europe and the dynasties of Asia were either no longer, or soon to be. Yet here, in New York, the atmosphere of the emboldened noblesse oblige still existed. Its upper class now even more sublimate after the stock market crash, chasing away the nouveau riche when they had nothing to fall back on. Here, in the high-rise skyscrapers of the art deco era, the wealthy had no fear of guillotines or revolution. Money was a retreat and capital in worship to the modern god.As they entered the gallery together. Heaven itself would’ve been a pauper’s pen compared to the dazzling multi-tiered crystal chandeliers and mile of Aubusson carpet.Thor begins the game for him.





	Daddy Won't You Please Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuddleslutloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddleslutloki/gifts), [MatadorCocktail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatadorCocktail/gifts).



> I used Annette Hanshaw's - "Daddy Won't You Please Come Home" as a point of reference in the inspiration for this story. The song's featured in the video game Bioshock as well as the movie Sita Sings the Blues.

 

**_Dec 31 st, 1935    7:15 pm - New York City_ **

 

Loki hardly recognizes the figure he makes, the one looking back at him in the mirror.

 

Hair sleeked back for business, lips ready to speak corruption, eyes whispering absinthe. All in the face of one so young that the angels could weep at his staying by darkness’ side. You’d never know it though, looking at one such as Thor, who was admiring his handiwork. “The tuxedo is a perfect fit.”

 

He’s not sure when Thor took his measurements, but muscle memory may have been enough. “I like…the studs.” Loki compliments faintly, assured that the line of his jet satin lapel is in place, that it’s really him the clothing frames.

 

At seventeen, he’s on the cusp of becoming a man, so the attire isn’t entirely inappropriate. Still, whether the blush is between mild embarrassment or late apprehension, next to Thor, he feels as if a child impersonating an adult.

 

“Mmm. If only looking the role would please me, then we needn’t attend the party at all.” and when Loki turns around to look him in the eye, that shade the same aquamarine of a Mediterranean on the day that Thor had perused the rivieras, tanning on Corsica bay – he wills himself not to falter.

 

Thor takes his chin. Their faces are close enough to kiss, but he holds off as incentive for reward, though Loki would’ve done it for far less.

 

“Do your best to impress me.” He purrs low.

 

 _Anything._ Loki thinks, and the nervousness in his eyes settles into resolve.

 

Then like that Thor breaks away, and Loki prepares. Spends the final few minutes available in quiet incredulity before they depart. It’s not much longer now, the hour for champagne and charade. An entire year’s golden culmination after midnight.

 

\---

 

The monarchies of Europe and the dynasties of Asia were either no longer, or soon to be. Yet here, in New York, the atmosphere of the emboldened noblesse oblige still existed. Its upper class now even more sublimate after the stock market crash, chasing away the nouveau riche when they had nothing to fall back on. Here, in the high-rise skyscrapers of the art deco era, the wealthy had no fear of guillotines or revolution. Money was a retreat and capital in worship to the modern god.

 

As they entered the gallery together. Heaven itself would’ve been a pauper’s pen compared to the dazzling multi-tiered crystal chandeliers and mile of Aubusson carpet.

 

Thor begins the game for him, “My lady.” drawing one towards him with by her opera gloved hand. She laughed and diamonds sparkled at her ears, a young vision in blonde coiffed curls and soft-seduction black. “Goodness, Thor, I’d hate to think how terribly dull this evening would’ve been without you.”

 

“As would I” Loki lures, “If not for your presence outshining his, madam.”

 

“Oh?” she smiles at the handsome stranger, closer to her age, though one can hope closer to Thor’s in fortune as well. “I have not yet had the pleasure.” eyes going between the both of them, intrigued.

 

“My nephew, Loki. He’s returned to us from life in London.” the smooth lie not missing a beat.

 

And then it’s on.

 

With a drink always in hand from the ready and white uniformed servers, Thor took stock of how his newest fancy presented before them all. The inquisitive noticing the unknown entity in their midst. Loki traded double entendres with even the most eloquent of highborns, verbally fenced with the socialite-turned-politicians, charmed every lady and elevated escort who entered his orbit, and flattered the most wretched of the ingratiated with double-edged compliments.

 

He had selected him for this. There was only so much one could teach a sloe-eyed inbred what Loki exuded naturally. Through it all, Loki would sometimes find the opportunity to catch Thor’s eye across the room, distracted from the one he was entertaining in equal measure, and his eyes smirked secretly and glimmered briefly for acknowledgement from the only one who really mattered.

 

Then he’d tear his eyes away.

 

So he goes on, prolonging this game of innocent flirtation and chase. Thor watches him without watching him from his whereabouts in the room, and Loki pretends he doesn’t know. It’s all very refined given the obscene opulence, but he eases into the role. Wonders if he can put on an act so well that Thor won’t be able to help but whisk him back before the climax, but then his self-control was honed as well as any extant bourgeoise.

 

When he plays at guessing the karats on a jewelled dowager, Thor would spin his dance partner around and lean over to conveniently whisper something in her ear. When he inquired as to industry with a walrus-mustached tycoon, Thor grinned and leaned back on the grand, curved staircase, eavesdropping. When he clinks glasses and brings up the most relevant policies with plutocracy, Thor notes the individual and county.

 

Loki became comfortable in the knowledge of his expert performance. Every time he took an exiled Russian lady’s hand to dance, he could feel Thor’s gaze on him. By late evening he had insinuated himself into American high society as if he had been there with them since the dawn of the jazz age.

 

All night he socialized amongst them a prince. All the while aware of how to appear for Thor the most exquisite form of masturbation. To be wanted, admired, and groomed into being something that gave him aesthetic pleasure now, as well as the promise of sensual pleasure later.

 

Outside the snow kept falling, begging entrance into their exclusive gathering as the hours went by. A pyramid of champagne belle coup glasses waiting empty stood beneath the clock face, counting down in anticipation.

 

The revelers were starting to blur together. The cork pop of freshly opened champagne couldn’t have come early enough. Metallic confetti fluttered down from the high ceiling in a final burst of magic.

 

He thought, more soberly than warranted, that it’d be a nightmare to clean up, but then, he wouldn’t be the one doing it, so what did it matter.

 

“So where are you considering travelling for summer?” the debutante talked like a Hollywood starlet and thought herself enamoring, but her trans-Atlantic film accent hadn’t been quite perfected before she’d left finishing school, and she fingered the string of pearls around her neck too eagerly, as if they alone could make her a woman.

 

Loki found her manners common.

 

By the look of it, her dress was only from the third-best couturier in the city. The clock had already struck midnight. There was no need for spell-binding artifice anymore. He was tired and answered honestly. “Coney Island.”

 

Her smile wavers at that. “I suppose it’d be something like visiting a zoo.”

 

He downs the rest of his drink and sneers at her internally. Thor finds him, a hand on the small of his back, and they depart without sparing her a glance goodbye.

 

It’s only when they get in the taxi does Loki let himself relax, slouching into the seat. The alcohol perhaps got to him slightly with the last drink of the night and he loosens his collar, cheeks further flushed from the cold as well. Thor’s gaze on him is predatory.

 

He leans forward, instructing the chauffeur to take a scenic route, to drive slow, and to not disturb them. Thrusts an obscene tip through the driver’s window before latching it shut.

 

Before Loki knows it, Thor’s gloved hands are on him, spreading the coat and undoing the buttons at the top. The cool air felt good on his overheated torso and his hot lips felt like heaven on his chest. He whimpers when Thor opens him up to stroke him to hardness, the Italian lambskin smooth against the glide of his erection.

 

They only drive as far as Times Square before Loki comes fast, shouts muffled by the other hand against his mouth.

 

When they arrive back at the apartment Thor kept for him, he carries Loki in his arms to their suite. Loki clung to him and breathed in the crisp smell of snow intermingled with cologne on his collar, watched the flakes glisten and melt into pinprick droplets of water. It was an open and tender moment following hours of pretense.

 

\---

 

Thor removed his maroon coat and tuxedo jacket, lounging in his ivory white pique vest and wingtip collared dress shirt. The first time Loki had seen him he was wearing the same sanguine apparel, as if he had spent his casual graduation years at Oxford idle between the Moulin Rouge and Red-Light Districts instead.

 

He’s reminded routinely, and with desensitized normalcy that Thor is the most beautiful man Loki has ever seen or will ever see. And now it’s just the two of them.

 

The entire soirée felt like entering one of Leyendecker’s painted worlds, brimming with life just beneath the bold strokes of the pictures Loki sometimes saw on the covers of the Saturday Evening Post. But Leyendecker illustrated many scenes of everyday Americana grandeur, and Thor himself could have been a model for the Arrow Collar Men the way the fire light played off his features.

 

No one caught onto them just as no one ever noticed that the men and women in his pictures were never looking at each other. It was easy to see what everyone else saw in Thor apart from the money, but Loki can’t help but wonder still what it was Thor saw in him.

 

Some nights Thor could be ruthless, but tonight it would appear he wants to be courted, though not like the others. The previous cajoling, flirting, tête-à-têtes, Loki already knew those, it was merely the vision that they came from that Thor had tailored. Refined. It was the evening lessons that he had the most to learn from.

 

It always starts with him pouring a glass. Quiet but for the sound of crystal on crystal. He walks over and hands it to Thor, whose eyes travelled from the proffered hand up to his loosened collar and hastily redone buttons. Wordlessly, Loki reads the desire and begins to undress. Thor lights himself a cigarette. The spark of want made real in the dark.

 

It seemed such a shame to discard what granted him legitimacy in the eyes of so many, but he slips into the role of coy catamite fluidly. Though the things Thor must have already seen as prerequisite to Loki: crossdressing dandy prostitutes, stockinged cabaret cancan girls, lesbian vamps in suits, demimondes caught in flagrante delicto, courtesans and cads… Berlin, Paris, Stockholm, Amsterdam. Thor carried himself like a man who’s seen everything and enjoyed it, and was, at the moment, gently blowing smoke through his nostrils like a dragon at a princess.

 

His clothing falls to the floor, and he steps out from the puddle of their make.

 

He has only ever been here in New York City. He has only ever been seen by Thor.

 

Naked, it took a shy second before Loki initiates to steal the cigarette out of Thor’s lips, casting his dark lashes down and inhaling deep, holding it, holding the moment, before opening his mouth to release the smoke. There’s no exhale, only the slow curl and swirl of the tobacco over his tongue leaving his lips – those lips that were a fraction wider than necessary.

 

Whorish.

 

Thor never smoked like that himself. He does his best imitation of the femme fatales he’s seen on the silver screen, the same ones that would bring a man to ruins.

 

So much for kittenish kisses, Loki’s eyes stung, and his throat felt raw. His head was dizzy and nauseous, but he put on a brave, unaffected face. Hoping for normal oxygen soon. Then Thor chuckled and make the suffering it all worth it. He brought a hand to cup the side of his face, thumb brushing over the line of his cheeks, “Lovely.”

 

He shifts his position, pants sporting a bulge, unabashed. _Go on then_ , as he leans back, spreading his arms over the foliated gold scroll of the wingback chair.

 

He flicks the cigarette into the fireplace, and knelt between Thor’s legs in submission, surrendering his pale beauty to his gaze. Just as he had during the party put on airs of artful superiority, now he must offer himself at Thor’s feet. Loki knew what he wanted: the pretense of innocence as well as the high of majesty.

 

Once Loki works him free of the fabric and sets his sweet mouth on his cock head, he simultaneously crowns him the king of all libertines.

 

He further tests the weight of it on his tongue, hesitating as if it’s his first time, peers up from his lashes inquisitively to express whether he’s doing it proper. The low gasp that this elicits marks him victorious. Thor puts down his bourbon to grip his hair at the base, pushing him down further like the well-trained naughty boy he is, and hisses as Loki swallows him all the way.

 

He takes it. Somehow. Like always – just barely, but gladly.

 

Chokes back a sob and then there’s not even room for that. Not with the way Thor’s fills with heat, salt, and the blood-iron of engorged flesh swelling in his mouth so close it flows beneath the skin.

 

“Not the pomp of pageantry, nor the seduction of burlesque…but I enjoyed it all the same.”

 

Loki whimpers.

 

Then sucks. No need for fretful fellatio here. Loki blows him like a back-alley broad, begging for work. There was barely any space for hollowing his cheeks, but the suction is there, together with Thor’s moans: the next best thing from a man who could be so stingy with his praise, knowing his ingenue would work all the harder for it.

 

Then the line of Thor’s body becomes taut, hand at his neck tightening to stop him, pulling out. Loki’s mouth comes off with a wet plop, drooling sticky strings of precome while red and abused. He looks up from mid-suck, and Thor stands towering over him, gaze heavy and dark with lust. “On the bed. Prepare yourself for me.”

 

He doesn’t need to be told twice before getting on the four poster La Rochelle, reaching for the bottle of oil that was kept on the bedside table. He was hard and wanted to stroke himself, or at least relieve the urge by rutting against the sheets, but Thor’s pleasure was always first priority, so he buried his face against the pillows and slicked his fingers to stretch himself.

 

Behind him, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. Thor stripped himself – eager, but methodical. Never mind that Loki was making the most delicious sounds demanding ravishment, those serving were meant to wait on him.

 

How many times had he fisted himself to sleep like this when Thor wasn’t with him? How many times did he dream of debasing himself like this for others when Thor left him alone while overseas?

 

How many of his own, slender fingers would amount to Thor’s one?

 

Oh, if only he could have offered up his innocence all over again and savoured the sweetness, but in its place now was the willingness to be subsumed by Thor’s carnalities, because even at three fingers, knuckles deep, and with a fourth one entering, Loki knows it won’t be enough.

 

Then finally. Finally, sensing his desperation, Thor touches with the intent to take him. Coveting his body with fingertips, stroking the long line of his side, past his sharp hips, to rest at the slant of his thighs. Parts them further. The heel of Thor’s strong hand rests between his shoulder-blades while the other takes his swollen member and guides it.

 

Loki feels the tip of it rest against his rosette pucker and steals a shuddering breath. Thor holds it like that, holds him down like that. Waiting, waits… even this he withholds.

 

And thrusts before Loki can go mad.

 

Back when mortals accepted gods as lovers, did they ever survive in the end? Thor enters him like the shaft of Apollo himself. Brutal and incendiary, and there was a reason Loki had his face shoved against the pillow, biting into featherdown.

 

Then Thor starts, shattering his world in slow sinuous.

 

Loki keens and pushes back to meet him, the stimulation washing over him in waves. He wanted to be lost at sea and drowned. Breath left him each on each roll, which he focused on gaining back just so that he wouldn’t lose it as a net loss and faint.

 

Yet Loki, somehow, is still sensate in places other than the pounding in his ass to register the hand that’s left his back and gripped his shoulder, “I want to see you.” and twists him around, screwing him 180 while Thor had still been thrusting. He looks up, dazed, into eyes as piercing and blue as midwinter, but instead of shivering or turning frigid, Loki melted upon his touch, Thor gripping his waist.

 

He growls “Who made you?”

 

Breathlessly, “You did.”

 

And now he was to be unmade.

 

His head spun with vertigo, the feeling of falling, of letting go. All he could do was accept Thor’s movements inside him, tremors and mewls his only response for being a receptacle for his pleasure. Yet he loved it. Was grateful, so grateful.

 

“Who owns you?”

 

Confessionally, “You do.”

 

_Mind, body, and soul._

 

Though it could not cleanse him.

 

He wants to find dissolution in their being joined, no longer caring if it meant euphoria or depravity. Sink to sybaritism before rise to rapture.

 

He just knows that it feels so right…

 

Thor was still the embodiment of sex, but it was only like this, blond and wolfish, hunger undisguised, that Thor was no longer the debonair playboy bachelor. He was a man who disguised his appetites well, yet nonetheless _voracious_. So often Loki felt as if he could so easily dissolve on that lupine tongue.

 

He leans close to whisper “The little soirées can be so charming.”

 

Loki wished he knew what Thor had thought as he gazed at him those corrupt fairy-tale hours.

 

“One of these evenings I’ll show you how the wealthy really play.”

 

Thor crashes into him in languidly in powerful thrusts. Every time he did so on the pull and push of his cock, the entirety of it, Loki burns from inside and prays for the same fire to be extinguished by the flood of seed. His cries were weak encouragement and Thor clasped him by the neck to entice more from him. Like everything of Thor’s, his body, his wealth, his world, it consumed him.

 

He was so _so_ close. Any more movement would set him off.

 

“Please daddy.” He begged softly, eyes closed. His hands had fallen onto the silk sheets above his head listless in the surrender, and one of Thor’s took to lacing them together.  

 

Those words brought Thor’s rhythm to a hastened erraticism. Now his full weight behind each drive. Loki sees white behind his eyelids and pulses in his own release flowing over his navel. Spine curving upwards, spasming in the aftershocks and squeezing Thor harder by it.

 

With a shout, Thor lost his cultivated image of control as he came.

 

For a moment it reveals Thor’s own need – for why, he doesn’t know, but perhaps… but then the expression is gone with the most violent of his juddering release. Delirious with the amount of it hot on his skin, Loki soaks in the last of the night’s decadence, and Thor milks himself dry. Finally, he wrenches Loki’s head up to crash their lips together and imparting half a second of grace before collapsing on top of him, slack.

 

Together they soften from the fatigue of fulfillment.

 

He wanted to stroke an errant lock of sweat-damp hair out of Thor’s face, but couldn’t get his arm out from underneath to do so. Exhaustion seeped out of him as his body relaxed, comforted by the weight with the promise of tomorrow, and falls asleep as is.

 

\---

 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s morning. New year’s morning: innocent in its nativity, as the freshly fallen snow. He curls into the warmth of the bedside now vacant. His hand fumbles until it catches on the note left in Thor’s hand. ‘ _Business to attend to. Back after dark.’_

 

He knew though, upon waking, even before needing to read. It happened sometimes. Empires to maintain after all.

 

However, disappointment rendered him dull, boredom caused him to be listless, and lingering made him anxious. So he rises, and is more than a little surprised that he can walk without a stagger but had not been so lucky as to be able to sit without wincing. There’s an oversized bathrobe of Thor’s that he keeps here, which he dons around him and searches its pockets.

 

Though it was winter, and not as long until dark, waiting and pining more than offset the time.

 

Some mistresses were given pets, he’s not so clear on what kept boys were given though. The furnishings were already more than he deserved. There’s nothing more to ask for. Instead, he picks out the most recently played vinyl record single and sets it on the phonograph, its gilded floral bell bringing to life Annette Hanshaw in his room.

 

Loki never took himself for listening to crooners, but Annette’s voice was that of sorrow without contempt.

 

_My lovin’ daddy left his baby again.  
Said he’d come back but he forgot to say when._

 

He lights himself one with the lighter Thor had left. Doesn’t want the smell to permeate into the upholstery of the fine furniture while he’s awake to mind it, and thus goes to and opens the apartment window.

 

Everything is coated in a blanket of white, several inches thick. He takes in the serenity of it. Manhattan was more of a concrete jungle without its lights, redeemed by winter’s day. The Empire State building stood in the distance as a king among subjects.                       

                                                                                                                                    _  
_

A curl of smoke from his cigarette drifts into the grey sky. He taps the end and the ash fell like snow while the snow fell like ash.

 

He tried not to think about the fragile feeling stretching his heart and pulling it thin.

 

A melancholy peace fell over him. It had happened on a day as cold as this. All he had done was take his coat. The day had been white and blank as all possibility, and now, leaning idle by the open window, he thinks upon all the choices and actions that had deposited him here in the style of French Baroque. He takes another drag and watches the flare of the burning orange-black tip. Can’t help but think of whirlwinds borne from the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, and endings from something as small as heartbreak.

 

It still felt like a dream of the waking world.

 

He wonders who the one taking Thor’s coat is now.

 

_Please daddy,  
Daddy won’t you please come home?_

 

The song finishes its sad lilt. Loki doesn’t move to stop the sound of needle dragging on static.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the talented and prolific Baylen, (cuddleslutloki). As well, for matador_cocktail since we are both huge fans of Leyendecker.


End file.
